The desire, no—the burning need—to get under her skin and break that cool and indifferent mask, see the female beneath the Queen, eats away at me. I have an unrelenting urge to prod and poke at her until she cracks, even though she never does. Throughout my centuries-long life, I’ve seduced countless females and males into spilling their secrets with just the right balance of charm and suggestive touches. It drives me mad she won’t crack, that I have no progress to show for the weeks we’ve been here. I’m determined to win her over to me. I just need to find the right angle.

Last night, she finally told us the full plan to break out the rebel prisoners, not trusting us with the information until the last moment.

“The palace cells are built inside the mountain, but there’s a passage from them that opens on the other side of the ridge, where the rebels can meet you to receive the prisoners,” she had told us. “It’ll be challenging getting back from there, especially if the guards are following you, but it will also add cover. If I aerstep you back and you’re immediately seen at the ball again, no one should suspect that you were with the group that went down those passages.”

Fionn and Silene had to scramble all day to get the information to the rebels, meeting with contact after contact to pass the information up the chain of command, but they pulled it off. I don’t blame the Queen for not trusting us with the information of the secret passage sooner, especially after Rusthelm, but it would have made planning easier.

I survey myself in the mirror and a jolt of excitement rushes through me, though I try to pretend I don’t know what it’s for. Fionn knocks on my door, then whistles.

“You clean up good, princey,” he teases. My rude hand gesture has him laughing. The formal uniform of a Velmaran Royal Guard makes his tall frame even more imposing.

“We need to go! Stop primping and let’s move,” Silene calls from the sitting room.

Her small frame jitters with excitement as I exit my bedroom. Wearing a navy and gold pant suit with flowy trousers that appear like a dress until she moves, she’s both regal and practical. Noticing my observation, she twirls. “I had a tailor in town make it for me this week. Rush order. It cost your father a heaping pile of gold, since we lost all of our verdes playing skran and the shop owner charged more to not pay with Thayarian currency,” she says with a maniacal cackle.

“In that case, it’s perfect,” I tell her. “Are you ready?”